


We know not what we may become

by Lunasong365



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bystander POV, Crowley and Aziraphale are NOT the main characters in this fic, Gen, Greek - Freeform, History, London, Music, Religion, Students, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 16:35:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6573796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunasong365/pseuds/Lunasong365
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An American college student gets the opportunity to authenticate a mysterious ancient letter via a trip to London and Aziraphale’s bookshop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A fic about two ordinary students who encounter Aziraphale and Crowley.
> 
> ~~~
> 
> I am grateful to [Macdicilla](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Macdicilla/pseuds/Macdicilla) for beta-ing this story. 
> 
> The title is derived from Shakespeare (Hamlet: Act 4, Scene 5)

I gazed out the window of the 767 as the terminals and outbuildings of the Atlanta airport accelerated past at increasing speed. The thrust from takeoff pushed me back into my seat as confirmation: _No going back now… I’m actually on my way to London! And I’ll get to see Mary Cate again…_

So why did I get to go on this big adventure? Believe me, it’s not an everyday thing – I’d never even been out of the country before, but I had been entrusted with an unexpected errand. My name is Kirel Wolinski and I’m a student at the University of Dayton. It’s a private Catholic university in Ohio, surprisingly one of the largest Catholic campuses in the country, but I go there because they gave me a scholarship to play French horn, of all things. I’m pretty good, but it’s like this – the better you get, the more you realize that you’re not really that good. I’ve been playing long enough that I’m starting to question everything. Now that I know there’s only about 20-50 openings a year in the whole world in orchestras for horn players, with 200 horn players auditioning for each spot, and that I need to study at least another two years after I graduate  – my high school dream of becoming a professional horn player has had a disturbing smack of reality. My mom likes classical music but she hadn’t understood why I wanted to major in music performance. She had encouraged me to pursue a degree in business but I would have none of that. After all, I was the best high school horn player in southwest Ohio. “Music or nothing!” my naïve seventeen year old self had said.

My future was starting to look like that big zero.

This story really doesn’t have much to do with horn playing, though. I also work on campus at the [Marian Library](https://www.udayton.edu/imri/marian-library/collections.php). It’s ‘recognized as the world’s largest and most comprehensive collection of materials on Mary,’ mother of Jesus. Now, I’m not Catholic or especially religious, but Mary Cate is. That’s how I’d met her. Mary Cate is majoring in Religious Studies, and she used to be a regular at the Marian Library. I’d spent a lot of time pulling materials from the stacks for her. It was definitely a symbiotic relationship – she’d gotten the books she needed for her research and I’d had an excuse to interact with her. Waiting for her to show up every Tuesday and Thursday at ten ‘til two, knowing she was studying in a carrel just around the corner from my “desk” – well, for me it was heaven on the 7th floor. Or my own personalized version of the tortures of hell. You see, I sort of had a crush on Mary Cate. The kind where I couldn’t say two words to her without sounding stupid. Oh, I tried to be smooth. I even starting planning ahead things to say to her. It didn’t work, and it soon didn’t matter, because near the end of fall semester I’d overheard her telling Sr. Margaret that she was going to be in London spring semester, doing an internship at the Society of Mary on Leicester Square. Rats! I still hadn’t had an intelligent conversation with her and she’d whisked herself out of my life, just like that.

Tl;dr: I was never good enough and Mary Cate always was.

Sr. Margaret has a bit of notoriety at the Marian Library because it was she who’d found an unusual document tucked into a 15th century folio this past fall. Of course, she’d brought it to Br. William, who recognized it as written in Greek on a fragile sheet of vellum. Br. William had been very excited about the letter, but was quite circumspect regarding its contents. I know he’d put the letter in a safe and made arrangements to personally consult with an expert in London about it.

Br. William’s trip was scheduled for our March break (we only get two days off, not a week). I’d run into him at work in the library earlier in the week. He’d looked despondent. “What’s wrong, Br. William?” I’d inquired.

 “Oh, Kirel,” he’d said sadly. “I’ve just received word that my father has died.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” I’d sincerely replied.

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you,” he had answered. “I’ll need to head to Chicago tomorrow to meet with family and make arrangements – but unfortunately this is the week I’d planned to go to London with the letter.”

“So call the guy and tell him,” I’d offered. “I’m sure he’ll understand.” It sounded like an easy solution.

Br. William wrung his hands. He’d looked distraught. “It’s not that simple. I only know his address. I met him a few years ago at Bonhams when we were both bidding on incunabula - I remember he outbid me for an illuminated book of hours - and I had a nice conversation with him. He’s really quite an expert on antiquarian writings and publications, although I suspect he’s self-taught. I couldn’t get him to cite his alma mater. He wrote the address of his bookshop on the auction program and asked me to look him up next time I was in London.

“He was the first person I thought of when Sr. Margaret found the letter, as he seems well-versed in ancient languages, and skilled at being able to source and date just about any written material. I tried to look the shop name up by the address – no luck. I then tried to locate a phone number or website – still nothing! It’s as though he is making it difficult for customers to find him!  Finally, I resorted to writing to the address. I received an unusually fast response, and Mr. Fell had agreed to meet with me this week. He’s expecting me Friday, and I have no way to let him know I won’t be able to come.”

I had a brainstorm. “I could go.”

Br. William had just stared at me.

“No, I mean it. I could go. I have a passport. You can transfer the airline tickets to me, and I’ll go meet with the guy and take notes or whatever on what he says.”

Br. William had still looked a bit fretful. “The letter has the potential to be extremely valuable. I’ll have to package it securely for you and you’ll have to carry it on your person. I won’t let it go in the checked baggage.”

“No worries,” I’d said cheerfully. “I’ll be like one of those people who courier human organs from one city to another – never let it out of my sight.” I was already formulating a plan. I had no idea how big London was or how long I’d have to meet with the book expert, but London meant Mary Cate.

The brother was beginning look a bit more hopeful. “OK, Kirel. There’s something else you should know, though.”

I broke out of my reverie.

“You won’t be staying at a fancy hotel and you won’t be in London more than overnight. I’d made arrangements to stay in the dormitory at the Society of Mary at Leicester Square.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: No endorsement or other of the University of Dayton is implied or should be inferred... : P


	2. Chapter 2

With bleary eyes, I pulled out my phone to check the time. In airplane mode, it was 2 in the morning and I just couldn’t wake my brain up enough to calculate London time. The seatback screen indicated the plane was already descending from its cruising altitude of 35K ft. I watched the little jet icon move imperceptibly to the right toward the British Isles, having already passed the grey no-tracking zone of the mid-Atlantic. England. London, Mary Cate, unknown book expert who already seem a bit peculiar. I fingered the edges of the over-large flat thick envelope that Br. William had securely wrapped with tape and wondered about its contents. I’d heard some hushed gossip but it hadn’t really meant that much to me at the time. Just something about shaking Catholicism to its core… What could I do except doze off again?

✈ ✈ ✈

This time, when I awoke, I could see below me the slated surface of the ocean with the grey-blue pearlized sky of dawn delicately brushed with shades of pink and salmon at its nadir. We were still high above the clouds. I checked my phone’s time again – 3:22 am. A passing flight attendant noticed I was awake and mentioned we were scheduled to be on the ground in less than an hour. I gratefully accepted the offer of coffee and pulled a bagel out of my backpack.

Chewing thoughtfully, I brought up a map of Heathrow Terminal 4 and reviewed my plan. I had no checked luggage, just the envelope and my backpack. Go through Customs, take the Tube (Piccadilly line) straight to Leicester Square, check into the dorm, surprise the heck out of Mary Cate, and walk to Soho to keep the appointment with the book expert. I smiled to myself with false confidence. Actually, it was more like a grimace. I was terrified. Not so much about meeting the with the book expert, but about what I would say to Mary Cate. Would she even remember me? _That skinny, horn-playing kid who works at the library…_ Had I ever talked about anything else? It is how most people know me. I pulled my mouthpiece out of my jacket pocket and nervously buzzed a few quiet notes, drawing a strange look from my seatmate. “Sorry,” I apologized. “I’m a music student.”

“What is that?” he inquired. “It’s so small.” When I explained it was a French horn mouthpiece, he smiled in recognition. “Ah. I played trombone in my school band. Good times. I no longer play, of course, but the wife and I, we go to the Proms every summer. Always enjoy a good concert.”

This seemed to be a common theme among many adults I know. Music was something you gave up when you grew up, and then you got a _real_ job. But he was still supporting classical music by attending concerts, and playing that music _is_ someone’s real job. We chatted a bit about last season’s programs and soloists as the plane continued its slow descent.

✈ =|=|=|=     

I emerged from the Leicester Square station into a late London morning. I checked the map. I was at the intersection of Charing Cross Road and Cranbourn, just where it turned into a pedestrian walkway. All I had to do was walk a short distance down Cranbourn and turn right at Leicester Place. The church, Notre Dame de France, would be on the right, tucked between a bar and a theater.

[](https://imgur.com/NKeKi4W)

photo by [ImprobableDreams900](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImprobableDreams900) and used with kind permission

Instead, I headed left down the walkway toward the fountain in the middle of the Square. _Ah, Shakespeare; what could be more English?_ I thought, blankly observing the splashing water spouting from the dolphins at its base and trying to quell my nerves. The park was a green oasis in a cityscape comprised of theaters, casinos, and fast-food joints. Patrons were already queued at the TKTS booth, anticipating evenings spent at West End shows. I circled the fountain toward its front and took a picture. THERE IS NO DARKNESS BUT IGNORANCE, I read on the sprawled scroll. _Ah well, now or never. At least I’ll be ignorant no longer._ I bought a handful of daffodil stems from a street vendor and headed back toward the church.

Passing through black wrought-iron gates, I entered the brick church and told the lady at the information desk that I was the expected visitor from the United States, come instead of Br. William. I produced my student ID and a letter of introduction from Br. William, which she perused with pursed lips. “Very well,” she finally pronounced. “Let me ring someone to show you to your room.”

“Miss Anders,” she said into the telephone mouthpiece, “the visitor from your university is here.” My heart leapt in panic. Mary Cate herself was going to show me to my room!

A few short minutes later, the girl I hadn’t seen in three months was walking through the anterior doors with a smile. “Hello Brother… KIREL?!” I couldn’t tell if she was gasping or choking. I stepped forward to grasp her elbow in assistance.

“Mary Cate, are you alright? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought Br. William would have notified you guys that I was coming instead of him. His father died,” I added lamely.

“Oh. I’m sorry,” Mary Cate said. “No, not sorry you’re here,” she reassured. “I’m probably the last person they would have told, low man on the totem pole and all.”

She looked wonderful, if a bit tired. Her light brown hair was done up in a kerchief and she wore a long skirt with an apron over a white blouse. “I’ve just been finishing up housekeeping, and your room is ready. C’mon, I’ll show you to it.” She took my hand for just a moment to turn me in the right direction. “I hope you don’t mind stairs.”

_Housekeeping?_ I thought. _You’re an intern!_ I really didn’t have any concept of what an intern at a city mission should be doing, but I was surprised that the person I’d known as a careful scholar in the library was now changing bedsheets and sweeping floors. Three flights of stairs later, she showed me my room and the bath down the hall.

“So what are you here for?” she inquired. “I know it has something to do with the document Sr. Margaret found, but I don’t know anything else.”

I placed the envelope carefully on the bed. “It’s in here,” I said. “I know it’s a letter in Greek on vellum, but I don’t know anything else either. I’m supposed to take it to an expert that Br. William knows here in London. The guy lives in Soho, so I’m planning to walk over there this afternoon. It’s weird. All I have is a name and an address. Mr. Fell. I’m supposed to be there at 3 pm.”

“I’ll come with you,” she said quickly. “I can read Greek. Well, slowly. But I can. I have to take Greek as part of my curriculum. It’s Friday afternoon! I’m off for the rest of the day.” Her eyes sparkled and looked less tired. “It will be fun for me.”

I handed her the flowers. “These are for you.”

“Oh!” Her mouth rounded in surprise. “That’s really sweet. Thank you. So, may I come with you?”

“Um, sure,” I stuttered.

“Great,” she smiled. “I’ll knock on your door in about 30 minutes. That will give you time to freshen up from your trip.”

Freshening up for me generally consisted of combing my hair, but I could use a change of clothes. I agreed, “Thirty minutes!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun exploring this area on Google Street View when writing this and the next chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

“So, Mary Cate,” I said. “I don’t get it. What’s with the skirt and scarf? And why are you doing housekeeping chores?” We were walking together up Wardour Street past Chinatown toward Soho.

Mary Cate fingered the gold cross at her throat. “Actually,” she replied, “I’m thinking of becoming a nun.”

To my credit, I didn’t say anything stupid, although a thousand questions were racing through my mind. I didn’t say anything at all for what seemed like several minutes. We crossed Brewer Street and continued north.

“Does that mean,” I finally responded, “that you’re not coming back to Dayton?”

“I’ll probably finish my degree,” she explained. “I’m only in the Contact stage, and it’s a long process. If I change my mind at any time, I’m free to leave with no obligation.”

“Huh,” I said. I’d already mentioned my current feelings of scholastic uncertainty. The problem wasn’t really scholastic – I was getting good grades and great scores on my juries – but I knew for sure I wasn’t one of the best horn players in the country. People like that go to Juilliard or Curtis or Eastman, not Dayton. “Sounds like you have it all figured out.”

“Not really,” Mary Cate answered. “I don’t think anyone our age has it figured out. I certainly don’t. I’m just looking for a way to serve. I feel this calling that I haven’t been able to ignore. But you; you’re a musician. That’s important because it’s also a way to serve. Music is so intrinsic to the human experience. It’s a means to express feelings from the heart when there are no words.

“I guess you have to think about the core reason you chose to study music. Is it because you want to play, or because you want to earn a living playing? I’ve heard that orchestral musicians have lousy job satisfaction.

“Even if you don’t get a position in an orchestra, you’ll get a job someplace that appreciates the discipline and initiative getting a degree in music requires. And you’ll find opportunities to play.”

I smiled and pulled my mouthpiece from my pocket and buzzed a little tune for her. Mary Cate laughed as I glanced above her head at the street sign on the building. “This is the street.”

Despite the gray March afternoon, I warmed a little inside at her kindness and thought about her message. I couldn’t help feeling I’d lost a little something with Mary Cate’s statement about becoming a nun, but it wasn’t anything I’d ever really had. And she was turning out to be someone easier to talk to than I’d ever previously allowed. _All that time in the library, when I was trying to think of clever things to say to make her notice and remember me … I could have had a friend._ Her last words were something to mull over.

I finally couldn’t hold back the obvious question any more. “Why a nun, Mary Cate? If you’re looking for a reason to take care of people, you could be a nurse or a social worker or…”

“I just feel this need to be completely immersed. Totally involved and committed and devoted to something bigger than myself and putting the welfare of others ahead of my own. I want to live in community with others who are part of something with a long tradition and history.”

It wasn’t any clearer to me but I figured her earnest response was some sort of religious conviction outside my experience. “Well, here’s the address,” I told her.

There was a car parked in front of the shop, a car older than I’d ever seen, except in pictures. Its black finish was polished to such a shine that it easily reflected our images. I stepped into the street to admire the emblem on the front, a ‘B’ with wings. “Cool,” I said. I didn’t know much about cars, but I recognized this vehicle was something unusual. “I wonder if it belongs to Mr. Fell.” I readjusted my grip on the envelope tucked under my arm and, mounting the steps, grasped the door handle.

The door opened with a slight jingle into a dimly-lit interior. As my eyes adjusted to the darkened room, I began to see books. Books on shelves, books on counters and tables, books stacked on the floor. Rows of books that seemed to extend toward an infinite distance in finite space. Books everywhere in seemingly random piles! My librarian instinct to organize and shelve began to tingle. Mary Cate gave a slight shudder as she brushed a dusty cobweb off the front of her skirt and edged a bit further into the shop. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

“We’re closed!” came a voice from somewhere deep within the stacks.

“I have an appointment!” I called back. “I’m here for Brother William Cardovan!”

There was silence. Mary Cate gently grasped my arm and turned me. In the corner, lit by a single shaft of light from the murky window, was a man. It wasn’t the man who had responded to my voice. This man was casually draped across a couch with a magazine on his lap. He wore a gray T-shirt with the same logo I’d seen on the car, with BENTLEY across the chest, and skinny jeans. Even though it was dark in the shop, I swear that, out of the corner of my eye, I’d seen him slip a pair of sunglasses on. He was coolly regarding us and made no move to get up.

From around a bookshelf came another man, the one who belonged to the voice. “Good afternoon! I’m Mr. Fell.”

As I shook his hand, I introduced myself. “Hello, I’m Kirel Wolinski, and this is Mary Catherine Anders. We’re here to keep the appointment because Br. William wasn’t able to come himself. I work with him at the university. His father died,” I added.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Mr. Fell, shaking hands with Mary Cate. He was rather nondescript in appearance, and now I can barely recall what he looked like. I remember his clothes more than his face. I’m no expert on fashion, but his clothes looked like something that had gone in and out of style several times while he was still wearing them. His friend was another matter. He was memorable, and I don’t usually notice men. With artfully mussed dark hair above elegant cheekbones, he’d finally deigned to get off the couch and greet us.

“And this is Crowley,” Mr. Fell added as the mysterious man raised Mary Cate’s hand to his lips and kissed it. I could see her shiver from several feet away.

“Mary Catherine, the pleasure is all mine,” he said, then turned to me. I got the same treatment. The kiss, the intent look, the hand held just a little too long. “Kirel. It is lovely to make your acquaintance.”

“You too, Mr. Crowley. Is that your car out front?” I said, making the connection between the two logos.

“Yes,” he replied with a slight smile, dragging out the ‘s’ just a bit longer than usual.

“I’ve never heard of a Bentley before,” I offered, trying to make conversation. I noticed he imperceptibly stiffened. The smile disappeared. “Nice wings,” I added awkwardly. Now he looked startled. “On the logo…” I trailed off, cringing. With all kinds of bad vibes emanating from him, Mr. Crowley stalked away sullenly. I felt like I’d made an enemy.

Mr. Fell quickly interjected, “So you two are students? What are you reading at university?”

This seemed like a really strange question, but maybe it was because he owned a bookshop. Mary Cate, however, seemed to know exactly what he meant. “I’m taking Religious Studies. And Kirel is a horn performance major. Quite good, actually.”

At this, Mr. Crowley turned. “Horn?” he inquired. “Like Dennis Brain? Aziraphale, you remember Dennis, don’t you? Friend of Benjamin Britten and Peter Pears?”

“Ah, yes, Glyndebourne,” Mr. Fell wistfully replied. “They were a lovely couple. Dennis was charming and quite generous, if I recall correctly.”

“Oh, Dennis was a fine horn player with a wicked sense of humour. Really, anyone who can read _Autocar_ and play Mozart horn concerti at the same time… Shame about the car wreck. It wasn’t supposed to happen that way.” Mr. Crowley actually looked a bit sad about something that had happened almost sixty years ago.

“His horn from the night of the accident is on display at the National Academy of Music museum,” Mr. Fell added. “Completely restored. Not so much as a dent. It’s not that far from here.

“Now, let’s have a look at what’s in your envelope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Britten and Pears only spent two opera seasons at Glyndebourne and are usually associated with Aldeburgh. I've used Glyndebourne because of the canon reference.  
> [learn more.](http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kevin-childs/benjamin-britten_b_4318555.html):  
> Brain was a pre-eminent horn player of the mid-20th century who was very good friends with the couple. His love of fast cars was well-known, and he died in 1957 when he wrecked his Triumph TR2 on his was back to London after a concert in Edinburgh.  
> [learn more.](http://www.gramophone.co.uk/editorial/dennis-brain-%E2%80%93-obituary-gramophone-november-1957-by-walter-legge)


	4. Chapter 4

I handed the package to Mr. Fell. He indicated that we should clear a space off the table near the back of the room. Mary Cate and I carefully moved stacks of books from the table to the floor. Mr. Fell laid down a large sheet of acid-free paper and smoothed it on the table. Mr. Crowley procured a small knife from his jeans pocket and cautiously slit the copious amounts of packing tape that secured the kraft paper wrapping and padding. Inside was a hard plastic casing, metal edged with a small latch. Mr. Fell opened the case and gently removed the letter, still in its clear protective Melinex sleeve. He quickly glanced over it.

“My goodness!” exclaimed Mr. Fell. “Where are my manners? I haven’t offered you any refreshments. Crowley, please make our guests comfortable whilst I make some tea.” I looked at Mary Cate, questioning. It seemed a rather anticlimactic move when we were just about to look at the letter. She shrugged and followed Mr. Crowley to the couch, where he gestured we should sit.

The tea seemed to take an unusually short time to prepare. Mr. Fell came out from the back room with a full tea tray unlike anything I’d ever seen. It had a flowered teapot, exquisite china cups, delicate saucers, gold-edged fluted dessert plates, silver spoons, linen napkins, a small pitcher of milk, a sugar bowl with tiny tongs, and a large platter of cookies. He set it on the table in front of the couch. “Shall I pour?” he inquired, just like a butler out of an old movie. “Milk?” I shook my head. Mary Cate said, “Just a little, please.”  Mr. Fell poured some milk from the pitcher then added tea to Mary Cate’s cup and mine. I observed Mary Cate carefully for cues as she added two cubes of sugar to her tea with the tongs and moved her teaspoon back and forth a few times to stir.

Meanwhile, Mr. Crowley had returned his attention to the document on the table. Mr. Fell soon joined him while Mary Cate and I watched them with sidelong glances. We only overheard bits and pieces of their conversation as they conferred in urgent whispers.

“…..”

“…Mary….to James…..”

‘’… early church…..Jerusalem?”

“…..”

“…..”

“Really, Crowley, it’s not like I was there. That was Gabriel’s show.” This retort was unintentionally loud. They both stared at us as we stared back, then turned their backs to us and returned to their whispering.

“…..”

‘’… 15th century Italy…”                                                                               

“…could change …”

I unlocked my phone and typed ‘wtf?’ and showed it to Mary Cate. She shook her head and put her finger to her lips as she quietly rose from the couch. She tiptoed across the threadbare rug in the middle of the room and stood right behind the two men as they bowed their heads in intense conversation low over the table, seemingly oblivious to her presence. The manuscript was still in the clear sleeve. And Mary Cate could read Greek. Would she be able to see the letter?

She stood there for what seemed almost a minute before Mr. Fell noticed. “My dear girl,” he chastised, “this couldn’t possibly be of interest to you.”

Mary Cate stood her ground. “Yes it is. I can read Greek. May I look at it?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Mr. Fell, blocking her view. “We’re about to begin some highly technical and possibly dangerous light analysis. Infra-red, ultraviolet…”

“Infrablack,” Mr. Crowley added. “It might be best if you leave.”

“I shouldn’t,” I said. “I’m responsible for the document.”

“Nonono. Aren’t you hungry? You’re very hungry, aren’t you?” Even though I couldn’t see his eyes, I felt strangely mesmerized by Mr. Crowley’s hypnotic stare. And suddenly, I was hungry. Even though I’d just had a cup of tea and several cookies.

“I’ve got a gift card for a lovely pub around the corner from here. Just get whatever you want; the card will be enough to cover it. You should enjoy yourself whilst you’re here in London. Just leave us to do the work! Come back later! Goodbye!” Mr. Fell slapped a card into my hand and herded me and Mary Cate out the door. The door shut with a bang.

And just like that, we were out on the sidewalk.

“That,” I stated, “was weird.”

The shadows were already long on the street as I turned to gaze at the old black car. I gestured to Mary Cate to stand next to it and took her picture. Her smile brightened the shadows in my increasingly obfuscated mind. It was beginning to feel as disordered as the bookshop.

“Yes,” she agreed, “and this is what’s really weird. The way they talk to each other, about old things and the past? It’s like they’re remembering, instead of consulting references.”

We ambled down the street. The shops were starting to close and the bars and clubs were beginning to get busy. It was the most eclectic collection of storefronts I’d ever seen. New Age and head shops, vintage clothing stores, jazz clubs, porn retailers, and hipster restaurants were topped by gentrified apartments flying rainbow flags from their windows. “Were you able to see any of the letter?” I asked.

Mary Cate shook her head. “I wouldn’t have been able to read it anyway. It’s definitely Greek, but in a cursive-type script rather than the simple block lettering like on monuments or a printed page. I did overhear just a bit of their conversation, though. It was really quite interesting.” Her eyes were shining as she dramatically paused.

“Go on,” I said, trying to echo her dramatic effect.

“They think,” she continued, “that it’s a letter from Mary to James.” I must have looked clueless, because she added, “Mary. Mother of Jesus. James. Brother of Jesus.”

“Oh,” I said. “Then it’s really old.” Then I remembered something. “Wait a minute. Didn’t they talk in Hebrew or Aramean or something in the Holy Land? Maybe even Latin, because of the Romans. Not Greek.”

“Aramaic,” corrected Mary Cate. “Actually, most of the books of the New Testament were originally written in Greek. It was the common language of the Roman Empire. But, Kirel, don’t you see? The content of that letter could change or validate our knowledge about the Blessed Virgin Mary.  It could be evidence that Christianity is the One True Religion. Or it could repudiate the Catholic belief of the perpetual virginity of Mary. I wonder if there’s a way Mr. Fell can prove it was written by Mary herself?”

We had reached the end of the street and turned the corner. The classic British pub with its green frontage and gold lettering was within sight. I suddenly remembered that I was well over the legal drinking age in the UK even though I wasn’t legal at home.

“At this point,” I stated resignedly, “everything about that letter is literally out of our hands. Let’s see just what kind of limit this card from Mr. Fell has.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greek was the leading written and spoken language of the eastern Mediterranean region during the time of the New Testament and it's true that most written communication was in Greek (to reach the widest audience today, one writes in English). If Mary had not been literate (not an unusual assumption) she would have hired a scribe to write a letter to her son.


	5. Chapter 5

Mary Cate had surprised me with her predilection for drink. I’d only bought a pint of lager and nursed it for a couple hours, but she’d made multiple trips to the bar. As we wavered down the sidewalk dodging other evening denizens on our way back to Mr. Fell’s shop, I held her unsteady arm as she giggled.

“What if,” she gasped, “what if Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley are international document thieves? An… and they made a copy of the letter and replaced your copy wit’ theirs? And they stole it?”

“I don’t even want to think about that.” I answered with a grimace. I’d been responsible for that letter and had promised Br. William I wouldn’t let it out of my sight. I rapped on the shop door and was surprised when it opened immediately.

Mr. Crowley stood in the doorway, his one hand on the doorknob and the other at his side holding something gold and circular – a horn? “Is that a horn?” I asked stupidly.

“Indeed,” responded Mr. Crowley. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s my way of apologising for my appalling behaviour this afternoon.” I dropped Mary Cate’s arm and reached for the proffered instrument.

My right hand slipped smoothly into the bell as I fingered the rotary valve levers with my left. The horn had an odd wrap and configuration of tuning slides that seemed characteristic of something I’d seen before. I turned the horn to look at the engraving on the bell. _Alexander._ “Wait,” I said, “is this Dennis Brain’s horn? From the museum?”

Mr. Crowley shrugged. His expression was inscrutable behind his shades. “It’s not like he was using it. Go on, play if you like.”

Mary Cate clapped her hands together. “Oh please, Kirel, play something for us!”

It seemed almost sacrilegious but I wasn’t about to say no. The horn was a B♭/A single with a stopping valve that Brain had used with customized extensions. I’d played on single and natural horn, of course, but my daily instrument is a Conn 8D F/B♭ double. I swapped out Brain’s impossibly tiny mouthpiece as I quickly mulled over what piece I could play.

Mr. Fell joined us. “Did you two have an enjoyable time at the pub?  Mary Catherine dear, here, let me help you.” He placed a gentle hand on Mary Cate’s shoulder and she visibly seemed to regain her balance. “Kirel, I have a report ready on the letter, but I also would like to hear you play. It seems like I’ve been buried in Greek all afternoon. Classic Greek philosophy states that music is a way to bring balance to hidden parts of the soul.”

Benjamin’s Britten’s [_Serenade for Tenor, Horn, and Strings_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PQ0ITqRBaE0) was written for Peter Pears and Dennis Brain to perform with orchestra. Its _Prologue_ utilizes the unaccompanied solo horn’s natural harmonics to introduce the piece’s six moody poetry-inspired movements about Evening. I’d played the short intro section just recently in recital. If I could just get through that wicked high A’’ without cracking…

♫♫♩ ♫♫♩

The trio clapped. Mr. Fell murmured, “Lovely,” as I replaced the mouthpiece and handed the horn back to Mr. Crowley.

“Thank you,” I told him with heartfelt gratitude. “I don’t know who you know at the Academy or how you did it, but I’ll remember this for the rest of my life.”

“My pleasure,” Mr. Crowley affirmed. “It was truly enjoyable to hear that horn played again.”

“And,” Mr. Fell called, beckoning us to the table, “here’s the report as promised. I’ve taken the liberty of repacking the letter for transport back to the United States. For yes indeed, it is a very interesting letter!

“First, as Br. Cardovan correctly surmised, the letter is handwritten in Greek on vellum in the style of a Biblical letter of the first century. However, the medium itself is not from the first century. This is not unusual and doesn’t mean the letter could not have been originally written during the first century and copied. Many of the earliest known fragments of the New Testament of the Bible date from the 2nd or 3rd centuries. The common method for distribution of important documents up until the time of the printing press was via manuscript by a copyist.

“I have dated the actual medium to the mid-15th century. The 15th century was quite an exciting time in Europe as it’s when the printing press supplanted manuscript as the prime means for distributing written material. Through handwriting comparison to known samples, I’ve identified the copyist as Constantine Lascaris, who worked as a Greek tutor on the Italian Peninsula and later in Sicily. It is entirely possible that Lascaris copied the letter from an older source. It is written using a cursive script with diacritical marks and ligatures which are contemporary with first century CE. Greek is a language with a long history and many changes, and it’s relatively easy to spot that Lascaris did not write using 15th century formatting and syntax.

“I’ve translated the content of the letter and included it in my report.” Mr. Fell adjusted his glasses and read, “’I, Mary Virgin, servant of God, very humble Mother of Jesus Christ, Son of God, the Almighty and Eternal, to James, leader of the church in Jerusalem. It brings me great joy that you acknowledge the gospel of your brother, Son of God become man, who has suffered the passion and death for the salvation of the world, and that He is Christ and also the true Messiah. I beseech you to persevere, and may peace be with your community and love with faith, from God the Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.’

“Here’s what troubles me about this letter, and why my final determination is that it is not authentic. The first part is very similar to another [letter](http://www.oocities.org/mabeherec/messina.html) by Lascaris that’s already been [debunked](http://campus.udayton.edu/mary/questions/yq2/yq323.html). The second half is too similar to the last verse in Saint Paul’s letter to the Ephesians to be coincidental. I wish I knew Lascaris’s reasons to create letters attributed to Mary.” He smiled warmly at Mary Cate. “I don’t think she needs the assistance when young people like you are willing to serve others in her name. God does have a plan for you, young lady, but the Almighty may not have your plan in mind.”

Mr. Fell signed the certificate with a small, neat signature, and inserted it into a manila envelope which he handed to me with the newly rewrapped package. “My dear, please pass my condolences to Br. Cardovan when you return. Remember, playing the horn is an exercise in risk. In performance as in life, always err on the side of confidence rather than timidity. Good luck with your music; I truly enjoyed hearing you play this evening.”

“Thank you Mr. Fell. Thank you, Mr. Crowley. It was nice to meet you too.” With that, Mary Cate and I stepped out the door. “Oh. It’s raining.”

“No problem,” Mr. Crowley quickly said, grabbing a black leather jacket and umbrella from the coatrack. “I’ll drive you back.”

And so it was that Mary Cate and I found ourselves in the back seat of the old Bentley, being chauffeured at night by a guy who still hadn’t removed his sunglasses. “Maybe he’s a celebrity,” Mary Cate whispered. I hadn’t noticed there were so many one-way streets in London on our walk from Leicester Square to Soho. And I knew we weren’t seeing the same sights. Mr. Crowley maintained an almost non-stop patter about the history of the landmarks and buildings we were seeing. He seemed to know as much about things that happened 300 years ago as events from more recent times. We ended up seeing about as many of the tourist favorites of London as one can see on a dark and rainy night from the backseat of a vintage car.

Mr. Crowley parked on Lisle Street and opened the door for us. Restricted by his umbrella, he peered in through the opening as we collected our belongings.

“Kirel. Mary Catherine. Sometimes it’s an option not to tell people the truth. It allows the world to go on as before, which isn’t so bad now, eh?

Mary Cate shook her head. “You should always tell the truth.”

“Nah. Problem is, people hear what they want to hear and then they bend that into their own truth. And sometimes things change that shouldn’t because the louder or more powerful side declares itself right, which means the other side has been wrong. Better just to leave some truths open to balanced discussion.

“Now, don’t forget anything in the back seat of this car because I won’t be held responsible for what happens if you do.”

He walked us the short distance to the front door of the church, gallantly holding the umbrella above our heads, leaving himself exposed to the rain. It didn’t seem to be affect him much though. He waited as Mary Cate pulled her key out for the employee entrance. As she opened the door, I turned to wave goodbye to him, but Mr. Crowley had already disappeared into the misty night.

Once inside, we collapsed against each other in a mutual fit of giggles.

“This was the weirdest day,” Mary Cate gasped. “Thank you so much for letting me go with you. I haven’t had this much fun since I came to London.”

“They were weird,” I agreed. ‘But they both ended up being all right in the end. At least that’s how it feels now. I don’t know,” I added as we started to climb the stairs. “It almost seems surreal, like it really didn’t happen.”

But I had Mr. Fell’s signature on the analysis certificate, and I showed Mary Cate my new lock screen picture - the photo of her with Mr. Crowley’s Bentley.

And then, because I had to leave early in the morning, at my door I kissed Mary Cate goodbye – not on the lips, but on the cheek, like a friend would kiss a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for this fic came from a fiction book I'd recently read about trying to prove Shakespeare was actually another person through document authentication ([Chasing Shakespeares](https://www.amazon.com/Chasing-Shakespeares-Novel-Sarah-Smith/dp/0743464834) by Sarah Smith). I thought Aziraphale (and Crowley) might be the perfect characters to be involved in a similar storyline involving a historical document and started looking around for a candidate, not realizing I'd be led right back to a university with which I have some familiarity.  
> I used many web sources to try to make this fic factually accurate - but I really don't have much background in this (except maybe horn playing!). I am grateful to Macdicilla for her knowledge of Greek and general beta-ing of the story.


End file.
